To the editor:
Something, for sure, was wrong inside of me. Nothing — nothing — I ate or drank stayed where it was supposed to. My world began to look fuzzy to me, and my husband took me to The Aroostook Medical Center Emergency Room. A nurse wheeled me into a room with several medical people. They asked questions, took blood to test, and fitted an intravenous bag to me. They were serious but good natured, and I soon felt better.
A doctor discussed with me medication I would use. I received detailed printed instructions, wished well, and sent home. How they prepared those printed instructions for my particular case so quickly I don’t know.
If I could have taken those wonderful nurses home with me, they might have soothed my troubled tummy. However, I soon returned to the Emergency Room. After a similar investigation process, the doctor explained the stronger nausea medication he prescribed. That worked for a while, then back I went to the Emergency Room.
“Enough of this,” the doctor said. “You have more than an upset stomach.” I was admitted to the hospital for what I would call detailed scrutiny. I was amazed at the medical machinery used in the scrutinizing process.
The Emergency Room doctor was right. I had some stuff I needed to do without, so I had a frank discussion with my primary care physician. She said at age 79 and with high blood pressure and diabetes I was a high risk patient. However, an operation might prevent future cancer. As she talked, I thought of the sister I recently lost to an aggressive cancer. However, she explained, TAMC had competent doctors who could help me.
I talked to two doctors. They explained operation procedures, risks, and preventing future cancer. They were professional, not pushy. It was decision time — my decision, and I wavered between apprehension and terror. My intuition told me to have the operation.
My decision to trust my intuition and chance the operation started what to me was an amazing process. Administrative people made the right arrangements, and a competent team of technicians, nurses, anesthesiologists, and doctors gathered. In a preparation room, nurses attached me to who knows what. On my way to the operating room things became fuzzy. I kept wondering if I had made the right decision. The phrase, “high risk” kept running through my mind.
I woke up in a recovery room with nurses, my daughter, and husband. Whereas my head had been only fuzzy before, it was definitely woozy then. Woozy notwithstanding, I was aware enough to be thankful for my winning team. I was very, very thankful.
As I healed, I was moved here and there in the hospital. I met nurses new to me, but they all — every one of them — seemed like old friends. Since one of my doctors was a gynecologist, I ended my stay at TAMC in the obstetrics ward — at age 79, no less. As good as the nurses were, they would not give me a new baby to take home.
On my first day home I was just glad to be home. On the second day I got bored and my husband suggested that I find something to do. On the third day I scooted around in my wheel chair and made cookies for the people at TAMC who did so much for me. My husband washed the pots and pans.
This letter is to thank the team which won for this 79-year-old, high risk patient and all of the other friends who cared for me.
Incidentally, my upset tummy is OK now.
West Chapman
